


a closed mouth don't get fed

by stiction



Series: Summer Heat 2020 [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: #1 lost light hobby is dissing getaway, Bifurcated Spike, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Tentacle Dick, a bit of, allusions to a past hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiction/pseuds/stiction
Summary: Cyclonus didn’t fish. That automatically made him cooler than Getaway, aside from the whole ‘badass warrior, great frag’ thing. But he did smoke dross, if the thing he was holding really was a glass piece.“Are you uh, supposed to be doing that here?” Riptide asked, more for something to say than anything else.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Riptide
Series: Summer Heat 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803259
Comments: 1
Kudos: 56





	a closed mouth don't get fed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harperuth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harperuth/gifts).



> written for the square 'getting high', put in with cyclonus/riptide by harperuth, bless her soul
> 
> come check out my board and put in bingo prompts [@schemingallday](https://twitter.com/schemingallday/status/1275841531245715457?s=20) on twitter!

“Oh, hey!”

Cyclonus didn’t jump, but Riptide hadn’t really expected him to. He also didn’t ask why Riptide had surfaced from the oil reservoir after being down there for who knew how long. A couple joors at least. Long enough, he guessed, for Cyclonus to come in, think it was empty, and settle in. 

He had a look about him that Riptide recognized. He didn’t stand up or frown any harder when Riptide swam a little closer, though, and that was as close to a welcome as anyone ever really got, even the usual suspects. Riptide had seen it plenty of times. Tailgate and Whirl got to touch Cyclonus, and he was pretty sure that after the (pollen) thing he had been added to the short list of people allowed to get close enough to try. It would be nice if he was, at least. 

There was something in Cyclonus’ hands that the dim light reflected off of. 

Riptide swam up to the edge of the platform and folded his arms . Being down in the reservoir was nice. It was quiet, and the light wasn’t so bright the way it was on the upper decks of the Lost Light. People didn’t really go there, and if they did it was only a couple of them. There was that one really messed up time Getaway’s hook had gotten caught in Riptide’s dorsal vent and he’d panicked hard enough to snap the cable and had to limp down to the medbay to get the stupid thing pulled through so First Aid could patch him up. There had been energon everywhere and dirty oil in his lines and he’d gotten a lecture about being careful when it hadn’t even been his _fault_ and...

Anyway. 

Cyclonus didn’t fish. That automatically made him cooler than Getaway, aside from the whole ‘badass warrior, great frag’ thing. But he did smoke dross, if the thing he was holding was what Riptide thought it was. 

“Are you uh, supposed to be doing that here?” Riptide asked, more for something to say than anything else. 

Cyclonus raised a stern eyebrow. 

“I’m not snitching or anything,” Riptide babbled. “Just, y’know… thinkin’ about how Magnus would be big mad if he caught you.” 

“I doubt he would make it down here in time to catch me,” Cyclonus said. “He’s currently occupied with the non-lethal weaponry battle that’s broken out on the upper decks.”

“I’m missing out on Pew Pew Clang Clang? Ah, bolts.”

The corner of Cyclonus’ mouth twitched up. Riptide tallied a big win. “I’m sure they would welcome a late arrival.”

“Nah,” Riptide said, pushing up a bit on his elbows to eye the piece in Cyclonus’ hands. It looked fancy, which probably meant it was old, too. Maybe even pre-war. Not a lot of people were going around making stuff that was easy to break those days. “Sounds a little loud for me right now.”

Cyclonus looked at him, looking hard the way he always kinda did. Riptide had mostly stopped being nervous about being stared at. It just meant Cyclonus was thinking hard. Cyclonus was pretty much always thinking hard. His thumb moved off of the crystals in the bowl, so Riptide guessed it was okay for him to be looking. 

“I can go if you wanna be alone though,” Riptide said, unsure if he meant _go_ like ‘go back under the oil and pretend this didn't happen’ or _go_ like ‘go upstairs to be pelted with stereofoam rounds’. 

“It’s alright.” 

There wasn’t a lot of difference between Cyclonus’ facial expressions, but Riptide thought this new one looked friendly-ish. 

“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.

“You can stay,” Cyclonus said. The shift of his other hand caught Riptide’s optics. Oh. Duh. He had a small torch tucked in his palm. “I am not opposed to sharing, if you’re inclined to indulgence.”

Riptide’s elbow slipped off the grating, dunking him under the oil. He tried not to flounder, but there was definitely a lot of splashing before he got back to the metal platform and folded his arms like nothing had happened.

“I mean, yeah,” he said. “I can be into, uh, indulgence. And all that.” 

“Well, then.”

Riptide blinked the rest of the oil from his optics and found the business end of the bowl hovering in front of his mouth. 

“Help yourself,” Cyclonus said. 

Riptide looked from him to the piece. It didn't _seem_ like Cyclonus wanted him to take it. Hm. He leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the glass. The torch flared right in front of his face and touched down on the purple shards. Good call, then. He jumped when Cyclonus cupped the back of his neck with one hand, the other holding the piece for him and even covering the vent as he inhaled.

Man, Cyclonus was kind of a weirdo. Riptide liked it. Which probably meant he was a weirdo too, but that wasn't anything new.

Whatever Cyclonus had gotten his hands on was intense and a little sweet. The heavy smoke coated his mouth and overtook the taste of the oil he'd accidentally swallowed. Riptide’s processor whited out to a low hum halfway through the first deep intake. That was... real fast, he thought. He pulled off when the smoke threatened to back up his vents. 

When a clawed thumb pressed down on his lips, he opened his mouth without thinking twice. Little wisps of smoke slipped out when he dipped his helm and took the digit to its knuckle. 

Cyclonus’ hand went very still. The clawtip of his finger dug into the center of Riptide’s glossa. It was dumb of him to let it happen. It also felt really, really good. Probably would've even without the dross. Him and his dumb sensitive mouth. 

“You too, bro,” Riptide slurred. Cyclonus deserved to feel good like this. They hadn’t really spent time alone together after K2-33c, but Riptide’s fuzzy train of thought was already chugging towards the potential of getting under Cyclonus' panel and going to _town_ on his array. 

The thumb left his mouth with a pop. Riptide let his lips hang open, tracking the last few trails of smoke as they dissipated. 

“That’s, uh, potent stuff,” Riptide sighed. His chin dropped to his arms, helm heavy as he watched Cylonus bring the piece to his mouth. The crystals in the bowl flared fuschia. 

Weirdly enough, none of the smoke came out of the sides of Cyclonus’ face. Riptide wanted to hook his fingers through those dark gaps and see if he could get it out himself. 

Whoa. Okay. 

Cyclonus’ dross was really something. 

The oil around Riptide’s frame felt thick and smooth, almost like CR gel. He hadn’t really gotten his hands on any dross since the last time he’d hung out with Drift, and that had been some bone-brittle slag. Just enough to make listening to Drift’s rambling about higher powers sound kinda legit. Definitely nowhere near this. Riptide wanted to sink back under the oil and never come up. He wanted to bury his face between Cyclonus’ thighs. 

“How could I refuse such an eloquent offer?” 

“Huh?” 

Riptide tore his optics away from Cyclonus’ panel and realized he wasn’t the only one staring. His elbow had slid all the way over to knock on the purple plating on Cyclonus’ leg. Riptide pushed himself up again. Those legs were spread wider than before, uncrossed and dangling into the reservoir. 

Okay. Okay. Holy frag. 

Drift would’ve slapped him if he’d said that out loud. 

The other corner of Cyclonus’ mouth twitched up. He must’ve been up in orbit to be making a face that strong. He had definitely had time for at least a couple hits before Riptide had surfaced. Probably why he was bothering to indulge Riptide at all, Riptide thought with a twinge in his fuel tank. Memory files of Pipes had a tendency to pitch in when Riptide started to feel bad, and here he was, right on schedule, chirping something about carping a day-em. Whatever. 

Cyclonus had a hand on his helm fin, tracing the join weld where it was extra tingly. Not fair at all. 

Somehow Riptide had already drifted between his knees. What was he thinking about again? Eh, it was probably fine. Dross made his frame warmer than it ever got normally. Cool climate, cool energon, all that. His internal readouts were unreadable, but he was hot enough that the oil around him had warmed too, slipping under his plates as he did the same to the hinges of Cyclonus’ legs. 

“Yeah?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Cyclonus said, because he hated fun and all. 

Riptide only got halfway through licking up the seam of Cyclonus’ panel before it snapped open and his glossa met hot silicone. Ohhh. Cyclonus _did_ taste different when he wasn't whammied. 

“Glad to hear it,” Cyclonus muttered. 

Riptide winced. “Thorry,” he mumbled, already trying to work his glossa past the rim of Cyclonus’ valve. “S’good.” 

Cyclonus didn’t respond, just tugged on his helm fin again until he got down to business. The tip of his glossa slipped between the first pair of calipers and sweetness overwhelmed his chemoreceptors. That wasn’t normal, he thought, and thankfully didn't say out loud. It was probably the dross. Maybe his own opinions barging in. He grabbed at Cyclonus’ thighs and pulled himself closer. His forehelm knocked against the hard length of Cyclonus’ spike. Must’ve come out to play at some point. It, and the low noise from above, really didn’t bother him.

Oil normally didn’t get in _s_ _ide_ his frame much when he wasn't stupid enough to open his mouth under the surface. Being airtight was good like that. But at some point his panel had slid back automatically, and now the oil of the reservoir was coating his spikes as they twisted and pulled at each other. It felt good. Not as good as getting to pin down all that dangerous horsepower had felt when he’d spiked Cyclonus, but… still good. 

Riptide pushed one of Cyclonus’ legs over his shoulder and snuck his hand up under his chin until he could push two fingers past the rim of Cyclonus’ valve. The grip on his fin tightened and pulled him closer. He didn’t remember this part much from last time. The organic stuff that’d rubbed off of Cyclonus and onto him had already started to mess with his processor, so there was the early stuff—the strain of his backstrut under Cyclonus’ weight, the fumbling, the kissing—and then it became a supercut of grasping and rolling and spiking. 

If the dross was nice, he’d be able to keep most of his memories this time. Maybe they’d get to do it again, no chemicals, no dross, just a good old-fashioned tumble in the berth. 

Cyclonus said something Riptide didn’t catch. He took it as a good sign. The energon in his lines ran hot and fast and he tilted his head up to mouth at the base of Cyclonus’ spike. 

“Riptide,” Cyclonus groaned. “Please.”

“Okay. Mkay. I got you,” Riptide promised, licking up a thick ridge on Cyclonus' spike and then dropping back to suck at his node. The part of the spiking stuff that Riptide did remember included the way Cyclonus had jerked and clawed at his back when he’d stroked over the roof of his valve, and he did it now with his fingers, rubbing over the same spot when Cyclonus swore. 

“You taste good,” he mumbled. Probably a dumb thing to say. He wanted to say it even though he'd already said it, wanted Cyclonus to know it even if it was obvious by the way he kept licking desperately past the mesh of his valve. 

Cyclonus’ entire frame shuddered, so Riptide kept going, babbling in between each deep stroke of his glossa. He lost track of what he was saying after the third bizarre compliment, but it didn’t seem to matter as long as he kept working his hand and his glossa together. His spikes, still tangled together and pulsing hot, were trapped between his frame and the wall of the platform. The tips dug into any metal seam they could find, eager to sink into something and hardly put off that no opening was available. 

The hand on his helm tightened again and urged him closer. Riptide stopped talking and closed his lips over Cyclonus’ anterior node again, lapping fast as he slid a third finger into Cyclonus’ valve. 

With a stifled shout and a crackle of energy, Cyclonus went stiff at the edge of the platform. His pede kicked out behind Riptide’s pauldron and splattered them both with oil as his frame curled forward. Riptide pulled his fingers free and rubbed just the tips over the rim of Cyclonus’ valve. 

When the pulses through his mesh had mostly stopped, Cyclonus lifted his helm and looked down at Riptide. 

He tried not to squirm. It was hard not to get fidgety when someone that serious looked at you for that long, _way_ harder if your spikes were out and wriggling around like crazy hoping to find something to get into. But Cyclonus only offered him the bowl again. Riptide closed his mouth around it, happy to be helped along. Cyclonus took his own deep invent when Riptide was done, and only exhaled once his optics had dimmed to a darker red.

“Come here,” Cyclonus said. He shifted back from the edge of the platform and Riptide pushed himself up out of the oil to follow. He ended up between Cyclonus’ bent knees, having forgotten about his spikes until the moment he felt them trying to sneak into the gap of Cyclonus’ thigh armor. 

“Sorry,” Riptide said. “Normally it’s… I can control it better.”

Cyclonus stopped his attempt to sit back with a firm hand around his hip armor. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. His mouth twitched again, almost smiling as his other hand slid down Riptide’s chassis to stroke the length of his spikes and guide them toward his valve. 

Riptide’s vents seized on air. He dropped his helm to Cyclonus’ chest and hunched forward without thinking into the squeeze of his fingers. 

“Help yourself,” Cyclonus said. 

Riptide really couldn't argue with that.

**Author's Note:**

> title from ['water me' by lizzo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49I6JrUnSQg)
> 
> join us here in cyclonus rarepair hell


End file.
